


Last Rites

by Lisafer



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Bazhir fic, Forum: Goldenlake, Gen, Gift Fic, Sayyid ibn Zahir, Succession Planning, Voice of the Tribes, Wishing Tree Gift Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 08:09:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17056076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisafer/pseuds/Lisafer
Summary: The changing of the guard has come, for Tortall and the Bazhir.(Prompt: Fics about the Bazhir or set in the desert)





	Last Rites

**Author's Note:**

  * For [westernsunset](https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernsunset/gifts).



The first people outside of the royal family to know of the king’s failing health were the Bazhir. The king had slowly scaled back his public events, and very few of the nobles noticed how unsteady he was on his feet anymore. He ceded many of his daily duties to the Crown Prince, who moved his family back into the palace at Corus after spending nearly two decades in the summer palace. But the trickle of Bazhir tribes entering the southern borders of the city in June grew to a steady stream by September.

Most surprising, to people of the vast city, was that they headed to the palace.

Within the inner-most sanctum of the palace, the quarters reserved for the royal family alone, a trio of Bazhir stood at the foot of King Jonathan’s bed, murmuring in low voices to the aged queen. 

“The drug should prolong his life – give him more lucidity and less pain for six to twelve weeks.” The speaker was a tall and elderly Bazhir who was probably twenty years younger than the queen, and familiar after years of serving the king. It was well known throughout Corus – though perhaps not most of Tortall – that he has once served as squire to the king in his younger days. “He must have time to impart his knowledge to his successor, and undergo the Rite.”

“I wish—” Queen Thayet’s voice cracked. “I wish Alanna were here.”

“She was instrumental in keeping the last Voice alive,” the shorter Bazhir woman said, her voice as thick as honey. Her eyes were soft over her veil, and she reached out to put a comforting hand on the queen’s arm. “Ali Mukhtab’s health failed almost as rapidly as King Jonathan’s. Maybe that is just part of being the Voice, and knowing when your end will come.”

“Ideally, the Rite would take place in the desert,” the youngest of the group said. His shared the leonine features of the elder Bazhir man, carrying himself with grace and dignity. “But we still commune with the Voice, and we all knew it would not be possible. So we have come to him.”

“It is greatly appreciated, Sayyid ibn Zahir,” Thayet replied kindly. “I think that my husband was taken aback at how quickly the illness spread. He had been intending to visit you with the Sandrunners.”

“Kourrem and I can go to the apothecary,” Sayyid offered, but the queen waived her hand impatiently.

“We have healers onsite who have access to the herbs we spoke of. I can arrange for one of them to meet with you when we are finished here.”

The king rustled in his bed, and when he spoke his voice was raspy. “Zahir?” he asked groggily.

The elder Bazhir stepped to the side of the bed, kneeling before his king and the Voice of Tribes. “What can I do for you, your majesty?”

“I thought I heard you,” he said, reaching out to grasp the man’s arm. “I was dreaming of the desert and the secrets it holds. It surrounds my every step, and I walked forever a thirsty man.”

“The sand never leaves your blood, you know as well as I,” Zahir replied. His voice was hypnotic and soothing, but his eyes were alive with respect. 

“I wish I had gone back one last time, but I feel it every day in my heart and mind when I commune with the people.”

“The people have come to see you,” Kourrem said, joining at Zahir’s side. “most of the Bloody Hawk are here. And many of the Sandrunners are here, too, to support Sayyid.”

“As we all should,” the king whispered. “The union between the Bazhir and the north was sealed by me at the request of Ali Mukhtab to ensure that the Bazhir ways survived. I’m honored to hand it back to someone born and raised in the desert, who knew those ways before any others.”

“When will the Rite take place?” Kourrem asked softly. “We need time to prepare, as you did before yours.”

The king laughed, though barely a sound came out. “My preparation was a rush of learning the Bazhir ways. Sayyid will need no such education.” He took Sayyid’s arm in his frail hand. “Are you ready?”

“I am.” 

“The new moon is in three weeks. The Bazhir will be in your hands then.” The king closed his eyes, his intent to rest clear to everyone in the room.

Zahir gazed at the queen, his eyes level. “Is Roald in the city?”

“He has been here for several months,” Thayet answered, her voice low. “I will let him know. As well as the Prime Minister.”

~~~

Those who remained in the desert, taking care of their families and the small herds of animals, felt the change. They communed with the Voice the following day, feeling the freshness and the youth in his thoughts, compared to the tired and weary feel of the last year. They also felt something else. It was a sameness, a uniformity that many had not felt in their lives. This Voice was one of their own, through and through. 

When Sayyid returned to the Sandrunners several weeks later, they welcomed him not only as their Voice of Tribes, but also as their cousin, their child, their friend. He was of the desert, and dedicated to the desert and its people. He would not hide himself away in the northern capital. He would not have a heart divided between cultures, but would represent their own. He was a knight of the realm, like his father before him, and would continue to bridge the gap as the previous Voice had done. But he was theirs first.

“The Voice has passed,” Sayyid announced to everyone, that night at the fire, although he knew they were aware. “I take his place with a heavy heart, for he will be missed. But we will continue on in the ways we know how, and I will guide you as well as I can.”

“To the Voice of the Tribes,” one man called out, “may he rest in peace.”

“And to healthy life for our new Voice,” a young shaman girl said, her voice clear above the murmurs of the others.

“To a healthy life,” the others repeated. They all bowed their heads respectfully and opened their minds to the new Voice of the Tribes as the sun set over the Great Southern desert.


End file.
